The Trials Of Idenity

I adjusted my goggles for the third time in the last forty seconds and tugged yet again on my gloves. My breath came in short choppy puffs that matched the rapidly increasing rate of my heart. It was another one of Colorado’s bluebird days, complete with crisp air and was harshly bright from the snow glowing in the afternoon sun. My snowboard groaned and the snow squeaked as I slid a few inches down the slope. I hesitated peering down the run, took a deep breath, and resolved to go either now or never. I weighted my front foot while simultaneously engaging my hips and pointed myself down hill….well I almost did those things. I mean, I at least pictured myself going through all those actions, felt my muscles tense and release through each movement. The problem is I didn’t actually go anywhere, it seems as though my body had a different idea as I discovered myself plopped down in the snow. Looks like I was going never.

 

I buried my face in my hands feeling completely ridiculous. I was on a self-imposed mission and failing miserably. I spread my fingers and peering through my orange tinted lenses watched a busty woman with bright pink lip stick slid stoically by in a brilliantly executed Texas tuck, wearing nothing less than a fur coat and white pants I swear she had to have had painted on they were so tight.  Mortified I dropped my head in utter defeat. What am I doing here?

 

Ignoring the clamor of the chair lift dropping of eager beginners on their first ever ski trip to Telluride, I closed my eyes and tried for a minute to remember what it was like to be a snowboarder. I willed myself to feel the cold rip through my clothing, feel the snow, move, alive beneath my board, feel the sting of snow crystals on my skin as I float over the sea of snow, feel my knees acting as shock absorbers…ah yes, knees, and reality comes crashing back over me.

My butt is becoming uncomfortably cold and beginning to protest to the unfair treatment but I still don’t move. I feel weary from the last six hours of mental warfare and I am still in a stale mate mentally. Searching desperately for some ammunition I let my mind drift back to eight AM this morning when I first got started in this whole mess. Elliot was leaving for work, cold weak light probing its way into the room he calls home. Kissing me on the forehead he offers to buy me a lift ticket for the day if I wanted to go ride. It was a generous offer, so I smiled but looked pointedly at my swollen knee. He shrugged, thought for a moment and then suggested I ride the bunny hill once or twice and then decide how I’m feeling. With that he left.

 

I lay in bed contemplating actually riding the (gulp) bunny hill. Did I even have the humility for such a thing? My pride said no way José and rebelled violently at the idea, but my soul, the part of me that so deeply longed for the freedom of the snow and winter in the mountains urged me out of bed and up to the slopes. I make it sound like an easy thing, but trust me when I tell you it really wasn’t.

 

Dressing, I grabbed my truck keys and trekked out to the parking lot to collect my well-loved and fairly abused K2 snowboard, complete with purple flowers and baby blue bindings. Ode to my younger more girly self. The weight of it was comfortingly familiar and I relished the cold sharp edge against the palm of my hand. As I walked back home I tried to ignore the hitch in my step, the result of a climbing accident a month before and instead channeled my thoughts towards the mountains. My plan when I got out of bed that morning had been simple and straightforward. Get my board, eat some breakfast, catch public transit to the village, rid eth bunny slope, which conveniently deposited me at Elliot’s front door and then spend the rest of the day relaxing and basking in the glory of my success on the hill. It would have been really awesome if I had succeeded in that endeavor. I’m ashamed to say I got as far as collecting my board before things went horribly awry. I puttsed around the kitchen for an obscenely long amount of time making myself a complicated meal of instant oatmeal and tea, while “cooking” my eyes kept wandering to my board where I’d propped it in the corner. I swear I could feel it staring accusingly at me while I did my best to ignore its existence. When I couldn’t distract myself any longer with the oat meal I turned my back on the corner and the snowboard it was harboring and popped a moving into my lap top determined to push the ever growing feeling of cowardice out of my consciousness. I couldn’t focus though and despite the fact that it was pre flavored instant oatmeal my breakfast tasted like chalk and stuck uncomfortably to the back of my throat.

 

            What if I can’t do this? What if it hurts? More importantly what if the pain is more than I can actually endure?

 

I caught myself staring blankly at the walls, tightly hugging my knees to my chest. Painfully I relaxed the death grip and detangled my limbs. The movie was rolling through the credits and I could see that the shadows outside were growing long. How long had I been sitting like that, I wondered. I glanced at my watch and nearly fell out of my chair when I realized it was almost two in the afternoon. What the hell was I doing? Filled with renewed vigor I slipped my feet into my worn yellow boots, cinched them up tightly as if to hold in my courage, snatched my snowboard from the corner and banged my way out the door and up the hill. Which was how I ended up here, butt in the snow at the top of the blasted bunny hill.

 

Once again I closed my eyes to shut out the swarm of brightly clothed people inching down the slopes like obedient ants. I took a deep breath, relaxed my muscles and demanded myself to just think for one moment. I am here for a hell of a lot more than proving I can once again snowboard, this is a question of identity to me and preserving a part of me I have identified with since I was three. I am a snowboarder. This simple yet deeply personal truth was stripped form me when I injured myself climbing, an injury that in fact kept me from doing much of anything and I went through a major identity crisis. And now here I am with the opportunity to reclaim part of that identity, and by God I want it back. Snowboarding is more than a recreational sport of sliding down mountains. It’s the expression of grace, strength, agility, freedom, joy and power, and if I have to ride down the freaken bunny hill to once again identify with those things, then you had better believe I was gonna do it.

 

I automatically slid forward, letting go of my pride and forgetting my fear, my pain and instead relished the wind and sun on my face. I gained speed steadily and with it confidence. I cruised passed the woman in the fur coat and smiled my first real smile of the day. Yeah Baby! I was snowboarding! Spraying snow in every which direction I skidded to a stop at the bottom. I couldn’t help but let a laugh cascade forth. I felt ridiculous of how much I let my fear and my pride control me. I felt ecstatic that, yes, maybe I could once again snowboard with only the smallest amount of pain. Most importantly though, I felt whole.

 

 

Objective Correlative – Phase Four

My teacher, Steve, gave us an in class assignment called, “objective correlative.” It turned out to be the hardset writing pieces I’ve ever attempted. When I got back to my dorm that evening I decided that I needed to try it again, this time within the context of my story. When Steve first explained to the class what we were to do, he also told us that no matter what, none of us were really going to like what we wrote. He was kinda right, it was that difficult. But I’m rambling, here is the assignment. Write from the perspective of a man who is looking at a building, describe the building and while doing so, convey that the man has lost his son in a war, never mention the man, the son or the war. Go. It turned out really difficult not to be cliché and boring. It was unbelievably hard not to mention a son, a war, or that the man narrating was a father, without actually saying any of those things! My first attempt was, ok. I was able to get across the sense of loss, and that it may have been a son that was dead, however slipping in the part about a war eluded me.

 

This piece is written from Rania’s perspective and not a man, also the person who died is not a son but another member of the family. So, here goes…

 

The barred empty window faces the city, curtains fluttering helplessly in the wind. They may once have been a pale pink, but now they resembled something much closer to the color of a dry earth.

A breeze sweeps through the opening licking up the dust on the table and drawing small patterns on the white plastic lawn chairs. The chairs surround a table and have an air of expectancy, as if waiting for a loud busy family to come pounding into the room and fill them. Bodies bumping into one another, the heavy scent of cumin sticking to everything. The chairs wait for the people, silently standing guard by the table. I wait with the chairs, but no one comes, except for the dust, which lies itself a little thicker on the white, brittle plastic.

The walls are cracked and like the curtains fading with time. Time reclaims everything here, including memories. An old, refrigerator, maybe from the 1940s stoops in the corner, mint green and riddled with holes, maybe from bullets, maybe not, who ever really knows. It had been used more like a pantry over the last few decades, most days were black out days and electricity cost too much anyway. The holes almost made a pretty pattern in the aging metal…almost.

I can feel their eyes watching me. Eyes everywhere. But each time I turn to confront them, they’re gone. I just find more forgotten furniture, sad and alone in this old house. I wander through the rooms. The silence is unsettling but it feels familiar. Maybe it’s the smell, almonds, worn upholstery, sun dried dates, the faintest tang of orange and the dust.  Overstuffed couches lie on their sides, stuffing spilling to the floor. It’s grey and dirty reeking of decay. I gag a little and turn to leave, when it catches my eye. The only real color I’ve seen in this place.

The handprint is small and smeared across the floor. It glistens in the unearthly light, as if the owner has just left. I scream but cannot find my voice the silence smothering me.

Waking suddenly, choking back a wave of tears and nausea, Rania bolts upright in bed. Clutching at the blankets, blankets that smell like summer and the sea. A single tear slides down her cheek.

“It’s just a dream, ” she whispers.

 

Amala – Story Phase Three

Alright, part number three is coming up! I’ve been getting questions about my characters names and this piece reveals them. Well.. actually I believe story two reveals the name of the artist. Does it not? Alister? At any rate if you are still feeling lost this piece uses both names explicitly. This third fiction fragment is all about dialogue. Up and coming writers seem to have the unique ability to be very dull in the way they write dialogue,”He said, and then she said, and then he replied, she queried…”  You get the idea. So the objective was to avoid boring dialogue tag lines like the plague.  As always please feel free to tell me what you think!

 

 

It was a hot day. Sweat dripped from the prominent arch of Alister’s nose as he steadily worked his way though the flower garden.

“Pass me those pruning shears?”

Rania was working across the row from him, her long hair hanging limp in the heat, tendrils plastered to her cheeks. She handed them over with out a word. Concentrating on the delicate purple blossom she held cupped in one hand.

“You know we used to have these where I come from,” she said as she leaned in closer to inhale the delicate scent, “we called them Amala.” After a moment’s pause adding, “it means hope.”

Absent-mindedly she dropped the blossom and her eyes took on that far way look she gets when thinking about home. Running a gritty hand across his brow leaving a substantial muddy streak, Alister studied her face for a moment and then against his better judgment asked the question that has been burning inside him for weeks.

“What happened to… I mean how did you…?”

He realized he didn’t really know how to ask. How to ask this small beautiful girl why she looks so haunted, why she wears a simple gold band on her finger but never, not oven once mentions her family or life before just appearing on the island. Rania stared blankly through the orchard and out to the sea. Her fingers trembling slightly. Sure that she wouldn’t reply Alister returned to his pruning.

“They all died.”

The sound of her voice equally strong and sad startled him so badly he nearly sliced off his finger with the nippers he was clutching. He waited for her to continue, green eyes seeking brown.

“They killed them all. They would have killed me too, but they thought I was already dead. There was so much blood, the sea tuned red.”

Rania looked perplexed at her own words. It was hard to tell whether it was sweat or tears that ran down her face. She scuffed the dirt at her feet and mindlessly picked up the small purple flower, hope.

“All we wanted was to be free of that place. So small. So confining.  We left in my fathers fishing boat. It wasn’t much of a boat but it floated.  And then they killed us.”

It was Alister’s turn to look perplexed. He had completely forgotten about the olive tree he was supposed to be pruning and stood there, hands hanging at his sides temples pulsing as he thought. Killed them? Who? Maybe the heat is getting to her. I should take her in before she hurts herself. He had just opened his mouth to suggest they head in for iced tea when Rania continued.

“Did you know they do that? As soon as you are three miles off the coast they’ll kill you. You are automatically a threat even if you are not armed.”

The way she said it made him think that who every “they” were they were probably not armed.

She twirled the flower in her slender fingers, “We knew. But we tried any way. Anything was better than continuing to live there. Or so we thought.”

It was clear now that she was crying silently, when she next spoke her voice shook with pent up emotion, “I wish I had died with them that day, but it was apparently not Allah’s will. Which is why he has brought me to you. Do you believe that Alister?”

She turned away not bothering to wait for a reply, and continued on with her work in the garden. She was angry though and her trembling fingers kept slipping with the nippers. The flowers were taking a beating. Rania jumped when Alister laid his hand on hers and gently extracted the tool.

“Why don’t you rest for a while? Or go on a walk. If you stick to the orchard you’ll at least escape some of the heat.”

He smiled gently to reassure the quaking girl.

“I am sorry.”

“Sorry? Oh don’t worry about the flowers they’ll…”

“No not the flowers. For coming here, into your life. All messed up like I am. I know you didn’t ask for me.”

She looked down at her feet in shame. It wasn’t like her to express so much emotion. Her feelings had been dried up long ago along with the last drop of water in Gaza. Another tear splattered onto the dusty ground in the garden. Alister had the sudden urge to hug the girl but that just was not something he did. Hug people. Instead he gave her a small shove towards the trees and returned to his work, a small sigh escaping him.

Story Idea Phase Two

Okay, so phase one was a mild success. Thank you to those of you who commented on the previous story. Over 50 people looked at the blog and I received only a small handfull of feedback, which was a slight bummer because feedback is super de duper de helpful. This is why I am doing this! So please please please feel free to tell me what each piece makes you think of, whether you like it or not, what you might change, any corrections etc.

I am not entirely sure how I feel about this second piece. The assignment was to create mood through tone and setting. Let me know what you think!

——

Everyone has an interesting life story. Everyone has some cataclysmic event that defines who they are. When I was eighteen like so many other eighteen years olds my life changed forever.  I suspect though my story is a little different than your typical coming of age individual.  I know no one else who can spend a week adrift at sea in a fishing boat with no supplies and live to tell the story. Well no one…except for me. The morning I woke up in Alister’s bed, confused and overflowing with hatred for this world was a tuning point in my life. I was expecting to be dead. Clearly I wasn’t or else I would not be sitting here writing to you today. Now I know what you may be thinking and it is not the way it seems. Alister is at least forty years my senior and at the time I woke up in his bed I didn’t know who’s bed it was. All I knew is that it smelled like the sea and I could have stayed in it forever.

I woke up that morning in a world so unlike the desolate warzone I had left. Never before in my life had I ever seen or dreamed of a place like my beloved Paros. Fields of sweet grass blanket whole hillsides, the sun making them glow with inner light. I would wander through the fields, fingers brushing the soft tops and lose myself in the clouds of butterflies that rose from the earth. A sweet scent puffed from the blades at every delicate touch enshrouding me in a wave of sweet air. Ravens. There were always ravens – cawing, playing, stealing, and haunting my every movement. The sea lapped at the shores of the Island. Most days it was a deep blue. The sort of blue you might expect nestled as a precious jewel in the crown of a queen. Sometimes though it grew angry and boiled as if hell itself was present. Gray and raging it would beat upon the little island. I was always afraid when this happened. Eyes flickering nervously towards the sturdy green shutters expecting them to give into the lashing rain at any moment. Alister would shake his head and hand me a cup of strong tea assuring me that we were safe. The shutters never broke and the house never caved into the mighty storms. If I walked out to the fields of sweet grass the day after I would find half of them lying limp and beaten on the sodden earth. And yet somehow they looked lovelier than ever.

The island was mysterious to me back then and remains mysterious to me now. Springs of water hot enough to bathe in gurgled from the earth in the deep valleys, the water an unusual purple and fragrant like rosemary. Nearby rocks hung with moss so long I would wear it as a dress and waltz through the forest. The old woman who used to bring me the first pick of olives from her trees swore that if I were to just submerge myself in the water my past would be forgotten and I could start a life with a clean canvas. I often thought about what she said but I never could bring myself to do more than admire them and occasionally wiggle my toes in the shallows. I think that maybe it wasn’t just the color of the water I found haunting but I wasn’t yet ready to let go of my fear. It defined me.

Maybe a month after I arrived on the island I found a cave low on a cliff band above the sea, its entrance worn smooth by the tides. I had scampered into its murky interior to avoid a storm that rose from the sea without warning. When the clouds cleared a thin stream of light danced its way along the rocks to where I was sitting. There was something strange in the light though that caught my eye. I could just make out paintings on the walls. A history left by the ancients. I swear every time I pressed my fingers to the cold rocks I could hear them still whispering their fears and hopes to the island, who bore theirs dreams. I too would cry my fears into the depths of the cave giving my burden to the island. Alister always thought I was silly to whisper to the cave but I swear to you, it helped. I stopped going as the years went by, when the memories became less raw and painful. That’s when I learned to paint.  Canvas and paint can take a surprising amount of abuse and still turn out beautiful. I could never have learned to express thoughts in color though had it not been for the help of the cave and the sweet grass, the sea and the purple springs. They taught me that there is more to life than a memory and so I kept on living.

An Idea

Yes, I have decided to reenter the world of blogging after a long and lonely dry spell. And I am reentering with a mission, or a goal in mind, which is in reality a hope and a dream. More importantly though it needs reader participation to be a success. Here is the plan. I have been working on an idea for a story (maybe a novel? we will see) in a fiction class I am taking in school. It is a fantastic class and the teacher is truly wonderful and has done a great deal to inspire me. Back to the point though. So I have been working on a story idea and writing friction fragments of this greater story for class assignments. It is an idea that I really like and I want to share with more people. Thus I have decided to share it with you! Here though is what I need you to do. Please please please comment on each fragment (I will add them slowly to the blog). The thing is though that I really want some feedback here. Do you like the characters? Do you feel like the setting, tone, mood and mystery (or not) work or don’t work for you, etc. Each piece has been written to fulfill an assignment and so I will explain what the requirements are that I am writing for before each peace. Sound like a plan?

I have been learning in my class that there is a difference between the story and what the piece is about. For instance you could write a flash fiction on a lady bug munching on aphids in a rosemary patch when what you are really trying to communicate to the reader is that the upper one percent just swallows the other ninety nine. Who knows? This is just an example and does not necessarily allude to my political views. It simply seemed like a relevant example.

This is what my story is really about. Art. I think that art can be healing in so many ways, especially the creation of art. It really doesn’t matter what form it takes – writing, painting, sculpting, print, photography, dance, music … – as long as it’s art and the inspiration comes from the soul. I know that for me writing is therapeutic, it allows me to express and feel in a very unconstricted and liberating way. I have also come to learn in my life that things beautiful can be made from hard situations or even ugly things in life. Grace exists every where and only something so strong and resilient as the human spirit can continue to seek, find and create beauty amidst or from hardship.

Piece one: The assignment here was to create a character through setting. The character being created is to not be present. It would be like walking into a strangers bedroom or office and getting a sense of that person through the things there. Its like a window into their life. Piece one is a window into one of my characters life.

I can remember that day so well….

The sheets were worn but clean and carried the delicate scent of summer and the sea. A simple wooden chair stood in the corner, a seat of woven grass. It tilted at a funny angle. I would later learn that the front right leg is just a little bit shorter than the others. A mistake made by an apprentice craftsman. A three-legged table of the same wood had been carefully placed under a window, which opened up onto a sweeping hillside of lush green grass and unruly flowers. The window was long and rectangular and guarded by deep green shutters. A single vase of liquid blue glass sat in the center of the table. Flowers with delicate orange petals delighted in the soft light streaming through the cracks of those deep green shutters. The floor was bare, red tile, save a hand-woven rug of simplistic beauty at the side of the bed. Threads of deep never ending purple, red like the earth and fresh cream wound out in perfect symmetry. It was thin in the middle from where someone had placed their feet, each morning at first light for decades. A strong door with a wrought iron handle was located at the far side of the room. The boards were hand painted blue like the sky between the edge of night and the break of day.  Red birds and flowers that wore the color of the sun traced patterns through the blue, leading the eye on a maze of purposefulness pleasure.

Curious I slipped from beneath the sheets, my toes pressed into the rug that had already seen so many mornings. Carefully I inched my way towards the door. Toes curled on the tile almost afraid to touch the beauty of that place. The flowers on the table encouraged me forward towards the door. I paused on that morning; fingers perched on the handle, smooth and cool to the touch. From up close I could see the way the wood grain stood out on the door, like it had been there for countless ages and could no longer bother to hold itself together. The door swung open with the slightest of squeaks just enough to make me cringe.

I recall blinking in surprise at the scene that greeted me from the other side. So unlike the one I had just left. Paper and books were strewn over tables that line the walls, the very same tables I write at today. Piles of books stood higher than I in some places. Windows on all sides flooded the room with clean light – spilling over the books and cascading to the floor where it pooled. Vases stuffed with wildflowers crowded into the corners, some of the specimens dead and forgotten with powdery leaves flitting to the floor. Others stood with regal pride bursting forth with color and fragrance. An easel with a half finished painting dominated the center of the room. Paint splatters covered the surrounding tile, some were still wet. An ocean flowed from the canvas. Tranquil and inviting. A boat, La María, is half painted floating in space waiting to be given life. Dirty dishes had been left on the center of a table, crumbs from toast, and fruit preserves on a platter of simple unadorned pottery. A breeze soft and warm swept through the room. Ruffling papers on the tables. One dislodged itself and floated to my feet. The paper was thick and felt old in my hands. A woman was sketched in charcoal. Broad, bold strokes brought her to life, coaxing her from the page. She looked peaceful as she slept, long hair thrown carelessly across a pillow, delicate nose, strong eyebrows and soft full lips maybe the bottom a little too full. It took me a moment to realize the sleeping woman was me.

* So please remember to comment, on anything. I really want to know what you think. I am more than open to suggestions!

A Day Of Me

Hello! I have arisen from the dead. After a wonderful summer working at a summer camp I have started school once again and am entrenched in the system of “higher learning.” Lucky for me I have found the perfect fit in my school and I have the worlds most wonderful poetry class. It is unconventionally, creative, engaging and to say the very least I find it inspiring. The following poem is one I scribbled out the other day for a “Narrative” poem assignment.

**For some unknown reason I CAN NOT get wordpress to keep this poem in stanzas. It keeps condensing it. So imagine that pretty much every capital word is actually the sart to a new stanza. I apologize because it very much changes the flow and practically the meaning of the poem but there just isn’t anything I can do about it.

A Day Of Me

A blue crack

probes my consciousness

one eye opens

seeking the dream intruder

pre-dawn light leaks

gently into the room

dancing in among the dust.
One brave toe

tests the air

– cold –

and retreats quickly

underneath worn quilts

that smell of pine

and childhood

stitched lovingly generations ago.
One

Two

Three!
Limbs fly

in the scramble

to obtain new warmth.
Grandmas red wool sweater

itches as it settles on my

shoulders

hat, rain boots, red with polka dots

my favorite

caked with yesterdays mud.
I pause

a curl of steam

escapes from parted lips

fogging the window
the old oak door

heavy and resilient

takes all my effort

to swing open.
I welcome the new day

arms flung wide

to greet THIS

this day

this life.
Humming my theme song

I skip contentedly

over the ancient rolling hills

lush and green from

drenching spring rains
gulls cry noisily overhead

practicing acrobatics

pink tendrils

stretch through the dawn

like spotlights in the

misty unknown.
Slippery, black, smooth

the ocean caressed stones

greet me

the perfect skipping

grounds
spring ice

gigantic

forbidding

awe-inspiring

powerful

creeps bye

eyeing me
I look funny

on the surface

of liquid glass
a well placed stone

ripples me into oblivion

laughing I run away.
The wind whispers over the water

and a new day rises
Beauty dominates this place

in every moment

under each mossy rock

on the glassy frigid water

in the sharp cries of the gulls

over the ice,

in me.
Yes beauty

Lives

In me

Because I am a part of

ALL THIS

Land of Enchantment: Turkey

After three months traveling in Israel, Palestinian Territories and Jordan I joined my family and The Link School in Turkey for an outstanding week and a half. The following photos are from my time there.

 

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

 

Blankets of Daisies

Sometimes there just aren’t words to describe the beauty of a place. I am enchanted by Turkey; rolling hills strewn with limestone, birds flitting in and out of almond trees, which are in blossom, and daisies blanket the ground.  It is all-beautiful to me. I joined the Link crew a little over a week ago after spending three months traveling in the Palestinian Territories and Israel, and it is good to rejoin my family.

Yesterday was day four of our hike along the Lycian way.  I was pulled from a deep sleep as the call to prayer rang through the hills and echoed through the dark morning. I swung my legs out of bed and winced as my tender feet touched down on the cold stone floor.  After quickly packing and pulling on damp and dirty clothes I stumbled my way down to the 800-year-old sycamore in the courtyard of the mosque. My plan had been to climb up into the branches of the great tree and watch Gökçeören come alive, but when I got there the courtyard was already occupied.  There, strategically placed below the tree, was my dad, equipped with a microphone and speaking to Ali and Axel.

These two friends had stumbled upon our group in Patara while we were shopping for ice cream, cookies and other lunch materials a couple of days back. They are making a documentary on the renovation of an ancient Lycian amphitheater in the old city of Patara.  The founding principles of our nation (the USA) were first borne in Lycia and apparently President Obama may come and give a speech at the amphitheater’s inauguration. I guess Ali and Axel took a liking to us because we have run into them a couple of times now. They are two of the sweetest and most genuine people I have come across. They took an interest in our group and our study of Christian Science and spent some time interviewing the crew. It was an unexpected and enjoyable part of the last week. Who knows, we might end up in a documentary with President Obama!

We strolled out of Gökçeören mid-morning, through the fruit trees lining the road and on down through the canyons. A goat herd passed us with two shepherdesses and their pack of bear-like Mastiffs. A stream gurgled in the creek bottom. Pine trees swept and swayed in the breezes and the hot still air was infused with the rich scent of damp earth.  We climbed up and out of the valley bottom and crested a ridge over a thousand feet later. My eyes drank in the view; the Mediterranean glittered in the far distance, a deep and inviting blue.  Emerald green hills graced the middle ground and directly in front of me the ancient temple of Phellos crowded the hilltop.

That evening we spent the night at out guide, Ayden’s home. His place is a veritable sanctuary for any weary traveler, and he had 19 of us stumble through his door looking for hot showers and food. It seems like everyone except for me was able to acquire a hot shower and we all feasted on food grown in his terrace garden.  When I think about what makes life great the thing that immediately comes to mind is good food shared with a group of friends in a beautiful place. Well last night was definitely that. As a bonus to a great day Bodum, his mammoth-like mastiff guard dog that prowled around the buildings at night, attacked no one on their way to the bathroom in the middle of the night.

I wish I had more time to explore this country but as I write our bus is speeding me away to the airport for a final hurrah in Istanbul and then a flight home.  Although I have now written 634 words (as my handy computer tells me) I still have not found the perfect word to describe Turkey. The closest I can come is enchanting – make of it what you will.

The Wild Is Calling Us

I felt completely at peace as I nestled deeper into my heap of blankets. I could still feel the warmth of the sand after a long hot day under the desert sun. The full moon bathed the desert in a hazy blue and the indigo sky blazed with stars. My eyes wandered across the monolithic sandstone fortresses that towered into the night. This particular desert lies deep within the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan far away from noise pollution, honking cars and modern society.

Those of you who know me well are fully aware that the desert is my “sacred landscape.” I feel so completely at home amidst the sandstone, the silence and the serenity that fills the desert.  Although I have never seen a desert quite like this one I was immediately in my element.

We left Amman Jordan three days ago and embarked on a surprise adventure. Day one was spent in Petra, one of the Seven Wonders of the World. In my humble opinion it has earned its title. Petra was discovered in 1812 by a Swiss explorer and was built some time in the 3^rd Century B.C. The famous National geographic photo of the Treasury in Petra hardly does it justice. A towering building the color of a rose in soft evening light dominates the cliff face as you enter Petra.  You come to it through a windy canyon, tight and narrow, full of tourists, Bedouins selling horse rides and school children running amuck.  The farther I walked into the ancient city the more elaborate the tombs became until eventually I ended up at a citadel that was so impressive I nearly dropped my camera.

Hundreds of feet tall it towered over the desert kingdom, carved into the soft sandstone at the top of the mountain it was clearly marking the location as holy ground. We managed to scramble into the interior, which was nothing more than a giant square room. What I want to know is how they made the whole thing. Maybe no one will ever really know. I fell into a blissful daydream picturing the place as a functioning city five thousand years ago. Petra is beautiful, but it is still in one of the driest deserts in the world. I saw evidence of a sophisticated water canal system, but that’s only good when there is water to move around. I wonder how they managed to survive. What I would give to have seen it at the height of its beauty.  What would it have been like to live in the shadow of such grandeur in one of the harshest climates in the world?

After Petra we drove our bus even deeper into the desert, disembarked in the middle of nowhere, tossed gear into the back of a pickup truck, clambered into rickety truck beds and sped away into the sand, into the night. Not one of us had any idea what was going on and as we became dwarfed by the sandstone cliffs my breath caught in my throat. The night sky was as beautiful as I’ve ever seen it. We arrived at a tent camp where Bedouin men had cooked us up a delicious dinner. A fire roared and candelarias encircled the camp. While eating a friend pointed to the far side of the canyon where two camels and a rider moved like ghosts across the sand.

The next day I woke up to a golden world aglow with morning light. We walked 12 miles through the desert that day. Rotem trees dotted the wide valley floors, their sweet smell wafting pleasantly through the dry heat. Small purpleflowers blanketed the sand, something I have never seen before. Every once in a while I would pass a cone like flower that grows beneath the protective sand and then when its ready bursts forth, pushing away rocks and stretching itself towards the sun. It had robust maroon and purple flowerets all over it and was such a beautiful representation of life that I felt like kissing the little thing.

Our guide had us walk in silence for a long time, which I was very appreciative of. My mind has felt so full these last three months that I can hardly contain my thoughts anymore much less process them. But I was able to release all of them while I walked and simply be present with where I was. Red sand met black rock and blue sky filled my consciousness. Step after step, shweya shweya, slowly slowly I released my mind and let it wander over the dunes. I lived the feeling of sand shifting below my tired feet, the smell of sun-baked earth, the sun on my face and the freedom of walking unburdened through the wilderness.

That night we camped in small alcove, fire light flickered over the faces of our group, the soft music of the Arabic language floated through the quiet and the night wrapped its arms around us.  Dreams were sweet as we slept under the stars.

Yesterday morning I woke up long before the sun rose at 4:30 AM. I waited as the sky turned peach pink and the doves called the morning in. Before 7:00 we were spread out walking towards one of the sandstone monoliths I had been admiring the day before with the intent of climbing it. Careful feet and watchful eyes and hands propelled us upward, through the rocks, over the rocks, under the rocks, around the rocks but always upward.  When we reached our destination the desert spread out below us like a painting, perfectly still, perfectly alive, perfect in everyway.

I’m now sitting in the dingy dining room of our hotel in Amman. How I would love to be back in the desert, to learn its little ways, to live forever in its silence.  Alas it isn’t to be. I have always been in the mind set of “protect the remaining wild places!” but after this trip I am beginning to realize that maybe what I need to do is bring back the wild places. We have largely lost our relationship to the wild and it can’t be good for us.  There is so much for us to learn from the wilderness, creativity, curiosity, humility, compassion, strength and beauty just to name a few.  Go back to the wild people, return to nature, embrace the beauty of the world, the wild is calling us.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Be The Change

I know there has been a long dry spell without any real written insights from me but to be fair I can’t really think of any other time in my life I have felt this busy. Five full semester courses in a mere two and a half months kinda does that to a gal.  Quick recap on the last couple weeks… After leaving our beloved Bethlehem for good two weeks ago we headed down to the Negev desert and spent a couple of blissfully warm and peaceful days at Kibbutz Lotan. We spent the time learning how a working Kibbutz runs. Which for those of you who may not know, a Kibbutz is a socialist community. They were quite popular in the 1980s and 90s but since then have dwindled down to a few remaining Kibbutziem strongholds left in Israel. A few side excursions into the desert and the red sea for snorkeling rounded off the long weekend nicely. From sea to shining sea we made our way up to Tel Aviv. Admittedly the Viv isn’t my favorite city in the whole wide world, but the stormy days gave the Mediterranean character, the ocean took on a deep gray blue, the color that only a storm ridden ocean can take on. Then, two days ago we packed up once again, somehow managed to stuff us, and the mountain of gear into the bus, and proceeded to head up the coast towards the Sea of Galilee.  The swath of land that makes up northern Israel is stunningly beautiful. Lush, green, muddy and mountainous, it is like a little Switzerland hiding in the holy land. Who knew? One thing I constantly find myself wondering over is how on earth all this diversity fits into such a small piece of real estate. Israel, including the West Bank and Gaza is about the size of New Jersey.

We spent the last two days touring the Galilee area, which includes, Capernaum, Caesarea, and Nazzareth. The amount of history in these places was unbelievable. I saw the “exact” rock where Christ performed the miracle of turning five loaves of bread and a few fish into enough food to feed thousands, with leftover fishies nonetheless. And yes I did try to walk on the Sea of Galilee but no dice, I sank down like poor old Peter all those years ago.  We have been touring around with Eitan an x-Christian turned Jewish who made Alliya to the land of Israel six years ago. He is a character to say the least, extraordinarily knowledgeable, dynamic, engaging and he knew just how to say things that would test my ability to listen compassionately. Much of what he said I had to question and I strongly disagreed with.  Regardless, I learned a significant amount over the last 48 hours from history, to politics, and religion, all was interesting and all of it has left me with more questions than answers.

There are a number of things flashing in my thought that would be interesting to touch on from my time spent with Eitan. However, one in particular is calling to me to share. I am thinking about victimization. I often think about this idea but in more personal terms. Today when Eitan was ranting on about all the horrible things that have happened to the Jewish people through history he was painting a scene of the Jews being the constant victims of the world. Then I realized that everyone could excuse his or her actions as those of a victim. We can all find some way that we have been victimized. I recall reading in an article not too long ago about how often people play themselves up as a victim, often to receive sympathy, but how absolutely offended and defensive they get if you imply that they are indeed a victim.

It is an interesting situation to be in, this state of victimhood. Naturally everyone wants sympathy, we want attention, to be recognized or our suffering….but we also want to show our courage, strength and bravery. Unfortunately these are opposing qualities and don’t naturally flow together. The end result is what feels like a very dishonest, hypocritical and scared person or group. So the question begs to be asked, why do the Israelis have to play the victim card? They have had truly horrific things happen to them, yes, but playing the victim? It seems below their dignity and out of character. The second anyone questions the Jewish strength they immediately declare that they are the lineage of David, they are strong!

I know on a very personal level what the victimization game is about, I’m not too proud to say this, but I do it all the time. Sadly it typically evolves around weight or a physical injury. I get into this head space where I feel like everything bad in my life happens to me and me only. Yes, I almost disown both the cause and the effect of personal choices or circumstances I happen to find myself in, as well as the ability/responsibility to do anything about it. I feel like I must be the only God-forsaken soul who is dealing with xyz, and how unjust(!) it all is. When I get to this place mentally it often reduces me to tears, feeling frustrated, confused and down on myself.  My dad will often prod me out of my self imposed misery with this simple question, “Jess, would you trade your issues for anyone else’s?” It never fails to give me pause for thought and unfailingly I get myself pulled together.

Maybe someone needs to ask Israel this question, or the Jewish people in general, “Would you give up your history, your struggles, for another peoples hardships?” Everyone in the world, every individual, every nation, every community deals with hardships ! This is just a fact of life. In saying this I am not undermining the magnitude of the Jewish hardships, all I am saying is that we all have hardships on some scale or another that we have to work out. Playing the victim just means that you are too cowardly to cowboy up and own the past, the present and the future. It is a wee bit frightening to realize that a small yet powerful and determined country such as Israel isn’t currently capable of being responsible for its actions and the effect of those actions. It makes me worried about the future of societies around the globe. Victimizing one’s self  is decidedly a bad thing, and I will be the first to admit it is an easy trap to fall into.

Another thing I have been thinking about that Eitan brought up is the concept of justifying your actions or your countries actions by what someone else has done. In other words, just because America has military bases all over the world does not make it right or okay, and does not make it automatically okay for Israel to occupy anther people and nation. It makes me question my own actions. How often do I justify my actions by what someone else has done? Shoot. I know I already play the victim card at times and I know I justify my actions, not always but occasionally, by what other people do. Good gracious, I am quickly becoming Israel or Israel is becoming me. Or maybe Israel is just following the unfortunate trends of humanity. Either way something needs to change. It starts with me, realizing when I play the victim card and immediately stopping. Or when I feel like justifying my actions by what someone else does recognizing it and also realizing that I have the responsibility to think for myself. We all have this responsibility. As Gandhi said, “Be the change we wish to see in the world.” This change starts with us and it starts now.